Mello's Psych Journal
by The Nearly Missed
Summary: Mello rants and raves about anything he can think of in order to fill up space in some stupid journal assignment his Psychology teacher gave him. Thank God it's only for two weeks... Death Note belongs to Obha and Obata, not me.
1. Chapter 1

2/8/2004 Monday

This is going to be a weird assignment. Why Mr. Edman wants us to start keeping a journal, I don't know. As of right now, it's going to be awkward as all hell knowing that each of my thoughts and secrets will be written right here in this composition notebook, accessible by anyone.

All I know is I don't like it. Thank God this is only for two weeks.

He says to write down everything we feel at the end of the day. I'm supposed to take fifteen minutes each night, start writing things down and then just let my mind wander. In some respects, it seems like it's going to be easier than it is. In others, it seems harder. I guess I won't know until I start.

For the reader who will never read this, I am Mihael Keehl, better known as Mello.

God, I'm an idiot. I just put down my given name. Oh well, all the more reason for me to protect this thing with my life.

As I was saying, I'm Mello. Right now, on the second of August in the year 2004 at 7:24 P.M., I'm fourteen years old, but I'll be fifteen in exactly one-hundred and thirty-three days. That translates to December thirteenth. I may be young, but I've the mind of a genius, earning me my second-place spot at Wammy's Orphanage for Gifted Children. If you don't know what that is, well, then you're reading the wrong assignment.

I'm Catholic. I don't know exactly why I felt I needed to point that out, but I did and I am. I almost always have my rosary with me, and I've got this neat little cross bracelet L gave me on one of my first Christmases here. I wear it all the time and only take it off to shower—which I _should_ be doing right now.

In any case, this is the first week of my first semester of Psychology here at Wammy's. I'd like to think I know a thing or two about reading people, knowing how they think and act. I just really hope our teacher knows what he's doing.

As for my _feelings._ Well, right now I'm feeling pretty impartial. I kind of just want to get all of my homework done and out of the way, take a nice, hot shower, and go to bed. I don't exactly know what Edman wants for this or how much he wants; he never really specified past the whole "thoughts" thing. Thoughts and only thoughts: not just arbitrary and boring outlines of what we did throughout the day.

I guess I could say that today, I aced my Chemistry test. What teacher has tests on Monday mornings? Mrs. Reyvine, that's who. It doesn't really matter anymore, I guess. The test is over and I got a good grade on it.

Did you know that sodium reacts extremely violently with oxygen? It'll explode on contact with oxygenated air. I say it's worth playing around with, but maybe that's my inner pyrotechnic.

… I really hope Edman doesn't want to read this…

Mello

**A/N: **

So it's been a full month now since I've put anything out. I began this project just after ending my first big Death Note story, Score One, and now I think it's high time I share it with all of you!

I know the first chapter is short, but I promise you, this is only a prologue. His entries will get progressively longer. ;)

Estimated seventeen chapters. See you next week!

~The Nearly Missed

P.S.: Reviews will always and forever make my days.


	2. Chapter 2

3/8/2004 Tuesday

Turns out, Mr. Edman _didn't_ want to read this. That takes a load off my mind.

How he expects us to faithfully write every night without him checking it is beyond me. Maybe he thinks because he's the big bad psych teacher, he can read everybody like a book to tell if they wrote or not. Or, maybe he trusts us because, as the geniuses the school is known for, we actually understand that to cheat on work is to just cheat ourselves. Well, except for Matt.

Matt is what I guess you could call a best friend. Matt… Matt's an idiot. Why I really hang out with him, I don't know. No, wait, that's a lie. He's not an idiot and I do know why I hang out with him. He's just a lazy bastard who's smarter than I am but has the work ethic of a three-toed sloth. And when I say that, he's _smarter _than _me. Me. _I'm number two in the smartest group of children in the world. He's smarter, but still only third, because of his aforementioned sloth-like work ethic. But to me, he serves as comic relief, to make me smile even when I want to rip his head off and serve it with barbeque sauce.

And that's also why I hate him.

When I want to be angry, I want to be angry. When I want to pummel my punching bag, _I want to pummel my punching bag_. But when Matt's around, I can't be in that rage without him cracking some off-color joke that inevitably makes me grin.

One of these days, his jests are going to earn him a fist in the throat.

Did I mention I have anger issues?

Why Matt constantly sticks his nose in my business, I don't know. It's not accidental either, like my roommate Blare accidentally coming across some memorandum of mine while looking for something of his own. No, Matt purposely comes into our room just to bug me. I don't get it.

I think I remember the first time I met Matt. He came to Wammy's just after I did, when we were about seven and a half. I don't know exactly _why _he came here; he never told me. It was the beginning of summer. I was an active kid and loved the outdoors, but Matt was antisocial and hated anything to do with nature, so I didn't see much of him those first few months.

But I remember that on American Thanksgiving, he was playing the piano as amazingly as I knew an almost-eight-year-old could. Sure, that's not too odd to see at Wammy's, but I didn't know that back then. I wasn't a piano person. I remember asking him how he knew how to play and–I think this is the part that really made me remember him—he said he just taught himself in the last week, because he was bored.

Now, I know we're a bunch of geniuses. I know that we're hard to impress due to the multitude of talents we see. But I couldn't get out of my head the fact that he had almost _mastered_ the piano in a week _because he was bored._ I think that's where my whole inferiority thing first kicked in, because I wanted to be just as good as he was. I wanted to show him that he wasn't as special as he may have thought, by showing him I could learn to be just as good in just as little a time.

As it turned out, the most I was able to play by the end of that week was my own crappy rendition of Beethoven's Für Elise.

And ever since then, I've been trying to be the best at everything. At least, that's the first instance I can recall of my what-you-call _need_ to be first.

Also, ever since that day, Matt's randomly been terrorizing me, in between holing up in his room with a GameBoy and a laptop. He's a technological genius, more specialized than someone like me.

He doesn't want anything from me. I'm sure as hell not giving anything. Maybe he just gets some sort of sick enjoyment from getting me to smile while in a blind rage. I don't smile too often.

He annoys me. I hate him.

But at the same time, I don't know what I'd do without him. Probably destroy all of Wammy's House. Or, at least put a few hole in the walls. Maybe it's a good thing he's around.

Mello

**A/N: **

Happy Friday!

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. ;) Any thoughts? Once again, they will be getting longer and longer.

See you next week!

~The Nearly Missed

P.S.: Reviews will always and forever make my days.


	3. Chapter 3

4/8/2004 Wednesday

Call me crazy, but I kind of _want_ Edman to read this now. Well, aside from my name. Maybe I'll burn that part later. But other than that, it'd be interesting to see what somebody else, somebody impartial would think about my thoughts. Heh, think about thoughts. That's… I don't know. Odd.

But anyway, writing this is going to be extremely difficult tonight. I haven't slept much at all because of a research paper we've got due on Friday. Figures, mine's on insomnia and whether sleeping medication is either beneficial or detrimental to insomniacs. Not exactly stuff I'd want to write about if I had a choice.

Have I ever mentioned how much I love showers? I do. And I'm not being the stereotypical perverted teenage boy here. I know a lot of people think this, but I legitimately believe at least a third of all of the problems in the world could be solved in the shower. What is it about the hot, steamy water coursing over bare back that makes the pieces all fall into place? There must be _some_ explanation. Maybe that'll be my next research paper.

But as I was going to say, showers are one of my favorite things in the world. I don't have to remember anything about the world or life I live in when I'm in there. I can just close my eyes, and I'm wherever I want to be. I'm not stuck at Wammy's, competing with Near to be the highest rank here. In the shower, I am nowhere. Weird concept, yeah, but Edman, if you're reading this, you as a psych teacher would understand. At least, I hope so. If you don't, then I'm on a boat all my own, I guess.

Philosophical thinking in and of itself really never makes much sense to me. Give me Plato, Aristotle, Hobbes or Lock—any person's thinking I can grasp. But what made them think like that in the first place is something I don't know if I'll ever understand. It's hard to think in ways that are different and brand new in a world that has _only_ lived with certain views and ideals. How did someone grow up amidst these seemingly concrete world views, having been taught them one's entire life, only to end up believing or thinking differently? It happens all the time, I know. But what is it about the human imagination that wants to question society? Where does our curious nature come from? Did it come from the creatures we evolved from?

As a Catholic, I'm supposed to believe in creation. As a student, I'm taught evolution. Even though evolution is much more probable than creation, there's nothing saying that if evolution exists, then God doesn't. No, I view it more as God created the original universe, only to use evolution as a tool to create the creatures we find today. Survival of the fittest is a general pattern God created that we picked up on, and nothing really more.

This reminds me of the concept of destiny. Whoever tells me that destiny doesn't exist, I want to go up and yell in their face. Anything that has ever happened in the history of history is destiny. It's all been planned. Nobody can access that plan. Not some prophet, not even the Pope himself. God's got it all set up in his head, and whatever he plans is going to happen. Every choice has already been made. Even if you think you're going against the grain, that's was God's planned for you. There's really not all that much more than that.

Destiny's unknowable. Not a soul on God's green Earth will ever know a single sure thing about destiny, aside from the fact that it's unmovable.

I remember doing an essay on this about Manifest Destiny and the idea that the United States believed it was their God-given right and destiny to expand across North America. Yes. That was destiny. Who could deny that? It happened. It didn't go "against" destiny. That's just _not possible_. Hell, the fact that I'm using the words I am right now, the fact that I'm eating the chocolate bar I'm eating right now—that's all destiny.

Choice is a figment of our imagination. We seem to choose, and our little brains believe we are the makers of our own destiny. That's just selfish and arrogant. God makes our future. God puts us in every damned situation you can think of to test us.

I must say, as far as I can tell, the human race is failing that test.

I am legitimately ashamed to be a part of the human race at some points in my life. Most points, actually… Some of the insanely idiotic things people say and do, the pure deadly sins—greed, pride, envy, gluttony, lust, wrath, and sloth—they all make me sick. I know that's human nature, but I hate it. Why can people just be civil and love thy neighbors as we are commanded? It just doesn't make any sense to me.

Now that I've got that out of my system, I'm going to go take a long, steaming shower now, and probably take up all the hot water.

Sorry Blare.

Mello

**A/N: **

Happy Friday!

Now we're actually getting into what Mello is _thinking. _:)

I'd just like to thank all of my reviewers so far! My fellow authors know that fuzzy feeling and "squee!" that comes when someone reviews. :) Thank you all! :D

See you next week!

~The Nearly Missed

P.S.: Reviews will always and forever make my days.


	4. Chapter 4

5/8/2004 Thursday

So I asked Edman to read my three entries today. He said I was somewhat understanding what this was about, more so on yesterday's. I asked him what this whole assignment really _was _about. He said something along the lines of_ finding ourselves, relieving stress, _and_ overall maintaining emotional health._ I'm emotionally healthy. At least, I think so. Nothing's popped out at me yet saying I have anything wrong with me. Well, other than my impulse to mutilate any living (or non-living) thing that annoys me. But I'm already working on that.

What should I do to "find myself?" What am I? I'm a human. A _Homo sapien._ Where am I? Earth. Wammy's. I have emotions. Most of the time, they're stronger than I'd like. I'm smart. I'm always second place and I hate the hell out of it. What else is there really to me? What is there to find?

I don't get it.

Maybe it's because I'm only fourteen, or maybe it's because I'm just not looking hard enough.

What is the possible outcome of my future? I could exceed Near and become the next L whenever the current one either dies or retires. I don't even want to think about that one yet. I could spend my life being the perpetual second and succumb to Near's supposed superiority. I could retract from society and become an insane old man who fosters dozens upon dozens of feral cats. I could have a drastic personality shift and become the happy, smiling, and singing candy man! Hell, who knows? I could die tomorrow by some freak lava lamp accident or something. I just don't know.

You know what? Forget about my future for a minute. Think about now. The present. The current moment. Who am I, really? Mello. My real name. Number two. Chocoholic. Bully, to some people. I'm a short fuse—quick to blow. I'm a human. I'm blonde. I'm German. Fuck, I'm kind of far-sighted! What is there about me that I don't know yet? What am I? What will I become, that I'm not aware of? Is there something hiding inside me that hasn't emerged?

Depending on the day, I'm angry. That's a given. I'm also sad, but usually only when I think about my family. I'm generally content. Sometimes I can be happy.

I just really have no clue what to give you, Mr. Edman. It's just not working for me. I have no clue what you're looking for specifically, even when you tell me in so many words. What is wrong with me that I can't understand what a simple assignment is about? I'm only four days into this thing now. I've got ten more entries to figure it all out, to do some "soul-searching."

I wonder what Matt's doing for this project? Soulless ginger jokes aside, what is he writing down day after day? I know he's actually _doing _it; I've seen him working in it at lunch while absently eating chicken pot pie. Does he have some inner turmoil nobody knows about because he's an antisocial creep who's good at hiding things? Or is he exactly as he seems: just a bored genius with nothing interesting to him to take on? Knowing Matt, he's probably just ranting about how Mario is an idiot and should just give up trying to rescue Peach, that it's _too_ obvious she's having some affair with Bowser. Or something about how Link would think he's gay and finally gets with Sheik only to realize it's Zelda, then completely reject her because he really _is_ into guys. I don't know, I only really played those games once or twice. I just want to know what he's writing.

Oh, God. What about _Near?_

I know I hate him and all, but I'm actually kind of curious. I bet he'd tell me if I asked him. He doesn't hate me as much as I hate him... No, that would just jeopardize my tough-guy reputation… which I don't even know why I still try to maintain.

That's the thing about me, I think. I want to know everything about the world around me—people, mostly. I want to understand them. But when it comes to _me_, I have no clue what to say. What this assignment is talking about, I think, is that I have to understand myself before I go around saying I know what everyone is like. Right?

I can't just judge people by what I know of the surface. It's like with our families. No one really cares to talk about their past like that. How can I say that I know every detail of a person's family when they never told me? Matt's never told me about his family. Neither has Near. Or pretty much the entire school, save for maybe a couple kids. That's just something people like to keep to themselves. I don't know anything about them other than what they've told me, or things I've picked up that may only seem to be true.

It's like… forming a complete opinion about a movie you've never seen, or a food you've never tried. It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. I have no clue what I'm even writing about anymore.

You know what? I think I've got it now.

Confused.

That's what I am.

Mello

**A/N: **

Happy Friday!

I particularly like this chapter. Not too sure why. Do you guys? :D

Just for a future reference and disclaimer: I don't mean to offend anybody by anything I make Mello think. C: Honestly, some of the things I think he'd think I don't really agree with all that much myself. But, just thought I'd let you all know. C:

Thank you all for reading!

See you next week!

~The Nearly Missed

P.S.: Reviews will always and forever make my days.


	5. Chapter 5

6/8/2004 Friday

Edman says I'm getting it more. I think I kind of understand what he's looking for now. Some sort of soul-searching, maybe? I need to keep sane, is pretty much the main idea. What have a got pent up inside me just bursting to get out? Nothing, really. Not today. I mean, I _did_ have that nightmare of my papa and little sister again last night. But what else is new?

Allow me to explain. I don't really remember arriving here all that much. What I remember as clear as crystal is just before that, though. I remember being six years old, holding my little sister's hand as we sat in the ambulance. Yeah, I know, ambulances are cheesy in the cliché sob story of an orphan's past. In any case, my little sister Frieda and I were in the back with the medics, as we (or, more so _I_) refused to leave my father's side.

I remember knowing back then, that he had overdosed on heroin. I don't remember understanding what that meant, until perhaps a year or two later. I know now, though, that he was one of the better addicts anyone could ever have known. Yes, he had a major problem that ultimately got him killed. But he kept anything and everything to do with it away from his two lovely children. We were all he really had left. He had lost his job, his wife, was on the verge of losing the apartment… Losing his life was one of the last things he lost. I don't think he lost his hope in the end though, because Freda and I were still alive, and we were going to go out there and live our lives.

When he was pronounced dead, I recall asking loudly and repeatedly, "_Why won't Papa wake up?"_ Then, I remember a tall man with graying hair and a mustache smiling sadly at me. That was Wammy—Watari. He told me he wasn't going to wake up, that I was going to live with him at an orphanage he owned. I told him I wasn't an orphan, that I had parents. I realized that I _was_ an orphan, that my mother had died just after my sister was born, and now my father was gone.

Up until that point, I was completely convinced Frieda was coming with me to this Wammy's Orphanage place. But when he told me he'd make sure she was taken very well care of, I caught on that something was off. I demanded to know where she was going and why she wasn't coming with me. He told me one of possibly the worst things you could ever say to someone like me. "_You're different."_

I don't even know why it was so horrible for him to say that. I guess it just made me feel that my intelligence was a burden that broke up what small portion of my family was left. Upon being given a choice of an alias, I decided on Mello, not because of my long-time chocolate and s'more addiction, but because of Frieda. Her name translates roughly into English "peaceful." I figured the best synonym was _mellow,_ because, let's face it, I'd look pretty stupid if I were some guy walking around saying "_Hi, I'm Peaceful,"_ when, little did I know at the time, I'd grow up to be one of the most hot-headed and far from mellow people in the entire world. I dropped the W, of course, for cosmetic reasons my six-year-old mind found necessary.

I haven't regretted it yet.

But as far as most of the orphans here, my story isn't as much of a sob story. My dad was a drug addict and it got him killed. Blare was part of a giant family of twelve or something, and he was abused by _everyone._ No one gave him a break. Every time he wanted to say something, he'd be hit. That's why he's so quiet now, and why he keeps to himself.

As to why he picked the name_ Blare,_ I don't know. Maybe the Wammy's kids just have something for picking the name describing the farthest thing from the person. I mean, Near is nowhere near anyone. He's one of the most distant people I know. Matt, though, breaks the mold. There isn't exactly an opposite for Matt.

While this may not have been bursting to come out, it does kind of feel better having it all down on paper. Maybe if I have things recorded elsewhere, I can suppress them completely so I don't have creepy nightmares about ambulances or needles anymore.

Why anyone would do heroin in the first place is still beyond me. What in life is so bad that one needs to resort to drugs to escape it? I know, plenty of things are horrible and can and have gone wrong. But I still think that life is worth living, no matter how shitty it gets. If you get yourself killed, your life will never have a chance to improve.

It's the same thing with cutting or suicide. Not only is it sinful, but nothing in this world is so bad that one should end their own lives to escape. I don't understand how people find it necessary to kill themselves when they're failing in school and their parents are getting divorced and they've got the worst cold of their lives and some kid is bullying them. Doing that won't change anything. Your life won't get any better, because you just ended it! It's another one of those things that doesn't make sense to me, and I don't think it ever will.

It could be just because I'm not suicidal. I don't cut. I've got a pretty good life, aside from my admittedly crappy first six years. Although, I do know that my sister is alive. Or at least, I haven't heard that she's died.

I think, one of these days I need to find my sister and get reacquainted with her. Maybe we'll be friends again like we were back then, and I'd protect her with my life. Maybe I could convince Roger to let her transfer to Wammy's. I mean, she's related to me—she must be smart! Even if she's not _technically _a genius, and even though I don't know what she's like now, I still have strong feeling she'd fit in here.

I miss my sister.

Mello

**A/N: **

Happy Friday!

First week of this summer program—done. Awesome people are awesome~!

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, giving Mello a bit to explain this version of his history.

If y'all could do me a favor and vote on the poll on my profile, that would be fabulous! I've got another idea for a fic a-brewing and I wanted to see your opinions. :)

Thank you all for reading!

See you next week!

~The Nearly Missed

P.S.: Reviews will always and forever make my days.


	6. Chapter 6

7/8/2004 Saturday

It's a beautiful night. That distinct scent of rain on the cool breeze is enough to make even the smallest of nature fans swoon. The midnight blue sky is completely clear and dotted with stars burning billions of miles away. The other kids are outside, playing Blind Man's Bluff.

And I'm stuck inside, doing my unending homework and extra credit work.

I don't know what goes through my head when I throw myself under the bus. Somehow, I manage to keep on sprinting, but that proverbial "bus" is still constantly chasing me. It's just that _need_ to be the very best. I can't take being second anymore. It's not anything I can control, much like my temper. I'd much rather relax and be number one than work myself to the bone for nothing.

Matt thinks otherwise. He says that if I ever became the number one ranking student at Wammy's Orphanage for Gifted Children, I'd drive myself insane. He's probably right. I'm always happiest while working. It keeps me from actually _thinking_ about what a shithole my life will most likely end up being. It's all my own fault; that much I know.

But I can't help but think there has to be something more out there that I can work toward. Succeeding L? Already working on that. Finding a true love? Like some fairy tale bullshit like that would ever happen to me. Master something? I _could _and _have._ None of it poses any interest to me anymore.

If you asked anybody at Wammy's to describe my personality, they'd most likely respond with something along the lines of: "Mello? Well, he's… interesting. He's got a major temper, and always wants to be number one. Wicked workaholic, but he's one of the most social people you'll meet." Nothing could be farther from the truth.

It's not that I don't want to be number one, because I do, but it's not as much of a _need_ as people make it out to be. At least, it didn't start out that way. It was really just something to keep me busy, to distract me from life. If anything, it was a need to be distracted. If I concentrated on stuffing my brain with knowledge and end up L's successor, I might actually be able to make something of myself. But even then, I'd just be living in the shadow of a great detective whose name I'll never live up to.

But now, there's something about it that I can't let go. This reputation I need to uphold. I can't fall behind, because then people will question why, I won't be able to explain it, and somebody will probably end up getting punched. And it won't be me.

I know I've got anger issues. I know I'd like to punch the lights out of half the people who even make eye contact with me. It's just impulsive. My fists and feet usually do the talking, to save my mouth and brain from the trouble. It's much easier on me that way, expending emotion through physical means such as roundhouse kicking older kids in the gut. I make sure not to hurt them permanently or seriously, though, so many of my outbursts have been overlooked.

But here's the thing: I don't care anymore. I'm complacent. I'm drowning in this sea of discarded interests I've created, and I don't care.

Sometimes, I wish I was Near.

He holds no emotion. I only _wish_ I could be like that. If only I could just be number one, then I'd become the living, working vegetable that the albino-like kid is. He doesn't know how much I envy his personality, his intelligence—his entire _life_, really. The only thing he seems to know is that I'm the bully who beats him up when we get test scores back. Deep down, there's some sort of shame I find in doing that, but I couldn't let anybody know that. Any and every barrier I've ever set up would be shattered right then and there.

I don't even know why I have those barriers anymore. No one's going to want to come near me, anyway. Only Matt and Near have ever talked to me willingly. I generally _hate _people. Matt's just that lazy genius who acts like a doofus to avoid the attention. Near just wants to make friends with me. What's so hard about that for me to accept? The fact that he's always ahead of me? The fact that he always acts like the smug little asshole he really is whenever we get results? Hell, there are no good reasons for me to loathe him as much as I do other than plain envy.

… I'm a bad Catholic.

I'm bad at everything. I'm bad at being number one. I'm bad at being nice. I'm bad at keeping my fists to myself. I'm bad at praying. I'm bad at following God. I'm bad at being a good person. Hell, I'm even bad at loving for all I know. Then again, I've never really thought much about that.

Do I want a girlfriend? Not really. I want that closeness, yes, but I don't want to have to deal with another personality. If I could just have one person I could occasionally wrap my arms around, hug and kiss, without having to go through all of the shit of a relationship I know will eventually come, I'd be a hell of a lot happier than I am now.

I don't want to be that person, though. I don't want to be the abusive boyfriend or husband. I'm afraid of myself. I don't want to hurt the ones I love, even if I don't have anyone like that right now. I don't want to be the dad that people are wary of because of "mysterious" bruises like Blare's dad. I don't want my kids to end up like him, even though he's still such a nice person. I want to be happy, and I want everyone I love to be happy too, more than anything else.

I wouldn't say I'm depressed or suicidal. No, I'm far from that. As I said yesterday, I know that ending my life now would just be a waste of my potential knowledge and impact. Who cares if I'm down in the dumps now? Things change. Maybe one day, I'll be that guy everyone loves with the best girlfriend around who finally attained his dream job. Maybe my interests will change, and I'll be a monk or something. Hell, maybe I'll actually beat Near and try to wear a name far heavier than I can uphold.

Maybe I'll be happy. Crazy thought.

It's not like anyone but me is keeping me from being happy. No one is blatantly standing in my way, telling me that I have to suffer for _just a little longer. _As I said, I'm the one who's creating this sea of self-pity and the aforementioned "discarded interests." I'm letting myself drown.

I need a lifeguard. Somebody needs to be my lifeguard, and give me something I actually feel like working toward. I need a goal to work toward, something I really want to achieve in the deepest depths of my soul.

I want my life to be worthwhile. That's what I want. I want people to remember my name. _Mello_ will become a household name, just like L. I'm not sure what for yet, but I know I'm going to be known. People will hear me. Finally, people will hear me, and care. People will care about me. _Me._ Not this stupid façade I keep up.

Mello

**A/N: **

Happy Friday!

Mello's gone a-rantin' again…

Thank you all for reading!

See you next week!

~The Nearly Missed

P.S.: Reviews will always and forever make my days.


	7. Chapter 7

8/8/2004 Sunday

I honestly don't know where that came from, last night. I was in that mood where I was pissed off at the world for no justifiable reason. I can't help but notice that's been happening a lot recently.

Mr. Edman says _that's_ what he was looking for. Specifically from me. I guess the top three Wammy's students have had… issues in the past. I hope I'm always going to be able to say that I'm not one of them. He was gracious enough to offer his sincere worry, and he told me that if I ever wanted to _talk_ rather than _write, _then he's the one I could go to. I told him I'd keep that in mind. He also suggested I continue writing in a journal even past the assignment's due date. I told him I'd also keep that in mind.

If I push all of that other shit aside and think about something somewhat worthy of writing down… Let's see…

Matt came into my room just as I was finishing writing my rant last night. I slammed the composition notebook closed and threw it across the room. It's a good thing Matt's short, because if he was any taller than five-one, it would have smacked him across the face. Which, at the time, wouldn't have been too bad of an idea.

…In any case, this is about how it went:

"What and-or who are you banging in here?" There he went again with the off-color jokes that make me smile when I'm angry. Damn him. I could see him raise an eyebrow behind his dorky goggles.

"Fuck you."

"You only wish." He grinned and sat down on my bed, reclining like he owned the place.

I could only shake my head and clench my fists, telling myself to breathe and _not_ to punch this kid in the face. Fortunately for him, I succeeded in both. Instead of his face, my knuckles connected with the punching bag hanging from beside my desk.

He watched me and obnoxiously quipped, "Well then. Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

I could only growl and utter a warning, "Get out, or the next punch won't be to the bag," while I turned slowly toward him and turned my admittedly unsettling, angry, and icy eyes on him.

Matt just looked at me, a silly grin slapped on his face, and he shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. "You thought too much and put yourself in a bad mood."

_Boom._ He just stated my entire opinion toward this journal in eleven words. I stared at him, stony-faced, and pointed toward the door. "Out. Now."

For another moment, the ginger just gazed into my soul. Though I felt uncomfortable under his goggled scrutiny, I didn't waver. I stood like a statue with one finger held steady in the direction of the door.

Finally, Matt blinked lazily and gave in. "Chill out. You'll live longer," He drawled and slinked out the door, the latch clicking into place behind him.

I stared at where he just sat on my bed. I couldn't help but think—both then, and still now—that he was completely right in so few words. He hit the nail right on the head. I think too much, and I put myself in a bad mood. And when I say think, I mean about myself, about my feelings. It's been like that as long as I can recall.

Matt's a lot smarter than he lets on. I know that. A lot of people know that. Roger knows that, and tries to get him to work harder, but it's like the kid's on a perpetual valium drip. He's always "chilled out" and so laid back, it's a wonder how he even stays at Wammy's. He's wasting his life, his intelligence. I hope someday he'll actually decide to work a little and use his brains for some constructive reason.

Constructive. Not destructive. I'm thoroughly convinced that if given the chance and the motivation, Matt could and would easily develop some plan to collapse modern society and take it under his own rule.

I can't help but snort at that. It may be a bit of an exaggeration—kind of—but there's not a snowball's chance in Hell Matt would ever work like that.

But I would.

Would I attempt world domination? No. I don't want it, nor would it ever work. World domination is pretty much what Kira's trying to do now, and L's working on taking him down. I can only hope he'll succeed soon. It's not a matter of _if_ he succeeds, but rather _when._ The world just has to be patient.

I feel tired. Like when you run a marathon or something. I feel like I've exerted myself to my limits, that all I want to do now is sleep, and replenish the energy to my body. I feel achy and exhausted, and I want nothing more than to collapse into my bed and sleep. But, I've got homework, and it's not even eight o'clock yet.

Maybe I will go to bed. Edman _did _tell me that physical and emotional health should come before schoolwork.

In that case, bedtime for me. Blare can look at me oddly all he wants. I'll do my homework in the morning.

First of two weeks of this journal—done.

Mello

**A/N: **

Happy Friday!

Aw, Mattieeeee. C: I can't even think of anything else to say, heheh!

Thank you all for reading!

See you next week!

~The Nearly Missed

P.S.: Reviews will always and forever make my days.


	8. Chapter 8

9/8/2004 Monday

Holy shit.

Pardon my cursing, but _holy shit._

You'll never guess who I talked to today.

Go ahead, guess.

Nope, wrong!

Finally, after years of living beneath the shadow that is _the world's greatest detective L,_ I have finally met him face to face. I'm sure he gets this a lot—as often as he _meets_ people which I presume is very, very rare—but his physical appearance is slightly more than shocking. I don't know how much I can put down on paper. You know, the whole confidentiality thing. Hell, this journal's full of things nobody should know as it is, so why not?

The first thing I really noticed before his appearance was the way that he sat. I usually sat with one leg tucked up on the chair, which a lot of the other kids thought was weird. Near sat similarly, but always on the floor. L, though, crouched on chairs, no matter where he was sitting. He sat—and later, stood—hunched over himself, as if he had mild kyphosis, with his knees drawn up to his chest. When I asked about it, he told me that if he sat any other way, his deduction skills would drop a full forty percent.

The second thing I noticed was his appearance. L is a stick of a man. Either he doesn't eat, has an eating disorder, or his digestive system is a force to be reckoned with. He's basically a bag of flesh with bones, blood, organs and tissues inside. He's got these big, round, black-rimmed gray eyes that hold an expression of boredom mixed with unbelievably intense alertness and curiosity. I didn't even know if that was possible before now, but after meeting L, I know it is. His black hair doesn't look like it's seen a comb in _years. _He's as pale as a ghost—even paler than _Near, the pseudo-albino. _I guess it's some big thing for all Wammy geniuses to be white-skinned. And I'm not being racist, but looking between the Welsh Near, German me, and European-Russian-Japanese L, we're all like fresh snow. Even Canadian Matt has a certain pallor to him. Really, only Blare isn't pale, but that's only because he hails straight from Mauritania, Africa. Not to sound racist, but he's the darkest person I know.

But appearances aside, L was a relatively nice person face-to-face. I wouldn't go as far as to say _warm_, as he had that generally cold and calculating aura, but he didn't treat me like a kid. He actually spoke to me as he spoke to Ruvie, and to even Watari himself.

I never got that kind of treatment. Not even here. I wasn't treated like the second smartest of the most elite school known to man. I was treated like the child I really am, which at times, is admittedly… okay. But having my opinion actually _matter_ to _L_… It's the best feeling in the world.

In any case, Edman had shown my journal to Ruvie, and Ruvie to Watari, and Watari to L. It seems like they don't have any sense of privacy. That _was _supposed to be my personal thought collection, wasn't it? But I guess it's my own fault. I told him he could show it to anyone but the other kids at Wammy's. Technically, he kept his promise. Edman let me black out my name for the sake of confidentiality before it went into this small circulation.

Needless to say, L found it intriguing and wished to confront me about it. He took a day out of the Kira investigation to come speak with me. Only once, he addressed the orphanage by class through a voice scrambler and a laptop. The honor I feel is immeasurable. After holding a mostly one-sided debate on the various topics aforementioned in this journal, L told me a few stories of his own over a nice gourmet lunch.

He told me of three cases he'd worked on previously. The one that mostly interested me, though, was his story of the Los Angeles BB Murder cases. It took place almost exactly two years ago now. The murderer was actually the second place of the first generation Wammy kids, Beyond. I'd go into great detail, but that might just finish off this notebook. I honestly don't think the exact words that came from L's mouth will ever leave my memory. Maybe one of these days, I _will _write it down. If the muse ever arises, that is.

The only thing that really scared me about that case, though, was that B (Backup) was number two here. He told me about A (Alternative), another one of the first generation Wammy kids. He was the number one to Beyond's number two. Alternative committed suicide because of the immense pressure for him to succeed and become the successor of L. And B, needless to say, lost his marbles and went on a murdering spree in Los Angeles. A very ingeniously premeditated spree, but he was a murderer nonetheless.

I just hope that won't be me. I hope that Near really is emotionless and he doesn't just hold it all in. People who hold it in eventually reach a breaking point, and as much as I loathe and envy his position, I would never want to see him die by his own hand. That's just cruel, even for someone like me. I don't think I'd be able to take that, and I'm afraid history would repeat itself. I'm actually afraid that I'll lose it.

I told L that, and he agreed whole-heartedly with me. He strongly advised me to keep talking to Mr. Edman, keep writing, and keep employing my punching bag. I shouldn't keep my emotions in, but I also shouldn't let them affect the way I think or act in a given situation. It's going to be an intense balancing act on my part, but I'll do it. After all, L told me to. I'd blindly trust that man with my life.

The rest of the visit was mostly more talking about how powerful, but how much of a handicap emotions can be. I knew that before hand, and I think he knew I did, but he told me anyway. I know I need to control my output of emotions without holding them in. I can't be blinded by my anger anymore. It's hard, though, because I can't just turn it off! I know L expects me to be able to do that, but I just don't believe that I have the self control in order to do that. I don't want to let L down.

I want to be his successor. I _need_ to be his successor. It's all I have to work toward.

It's funny. The way I'm writing now, it makes it seem like I actually _do_ have some form of control over the way I feel and react. But in reality, when push comes to shove, I shove. My self control is limited, as I've stated. I don't think writing this all down is helping much, if at all. I still blow up at the littlest things, like missing the last cup of pudding at lunch. I don't know why the trivial things bug me so much, but they do, and I can't control any of it.

L has faith in me, though. He believes enough in me to come here specifically to talk to me, and to advise me on how I can better improve myself to possibly move into position of his successor. I can't help but feel he likes me better than Near on a personal level, but I of all people know L doesn't function by favorites. He'll pick the one of us who is better suited for the title of "World's Greatest Detective." I can only hope that the fruits of his psychological labor will have paid off before that decision must be made, and I learn to control myself.

I'm not saying I deserve it more than Near does, and I'm not saying I want it more. I'm just saying that I _express_ my ambition much more than he does. It's visible from any perspective that I've worked hard to earn the position I'm in, and I'm working equally as hard to exceed Near and become the next L.

Forget what I said on Saturday about finding something I want to do. This is as close to a natural calling as I think I'll ever be able to experience in my life. If I focus on this now, I can learn to love it with my whole heart, and not just this competitive streak I've got going. I'm going to do this. It may take a while—a month, six months, even a year! I don't care how long it takes, I'm beating Near.

I feel like I'm giving myself a pep talk. I guess I am, in a way.

I'm going to beat Near.

I'm going to beat him.

I'm going to win.

I'll be L's successor.

I will.

Mello

**A/N: **

/self pep talk

And so Mello meets the one, the only, L Lawliet! :D

Constructive criticism is always welcome. C: I squeal like the little girl I am whenever I see an email from fanfiction. ;D

I hope you enjoyed! :D

~Rachel


	9. Chapter 9

10/8/2004 Tuesday

I'm going tell you to prepare for it now—I'm going to be a complete and utter teenager today. I don't care if this isn't the soul-searching you're looking for. Deal with it.

Now, what will I be whining-slash-ranting-slash-observing about? Puberty. My hair. Girls. Meaningless complaints that I will without a doubt regret later. Pretty much anything you can cross-reference between teens and geniuses—and even some things outside that category.

My number one complaint for the day: public humiliation. Or, at least, however public you can get at a private orphanage without addressing everyone simultaneously.

I was in the middle of one of my improvisation sessions for speech class, and my voice cracked.

No, forget "cracked."

It _shattered._

I do believe I heard my larynx begin to cry.

What makes it worse it that I reacted to it. I could have just kept going on about freakin' hot air balloons like I was told to, but for some reason or another I just stopped. I hadn't even paused before the whole class was rolling with laughter. I turned as red as a cherry and wanted nothing more than to book it out of there and resume my life from beneath the nearest boulder.

But even worse than that is the most obvious and severe of pubescent worries and embarrassments of boys. I think we all know what I'm talking about.

That wasn't as bad as my voice, though. I didn't get called on to stand up or anything. I was just extremely uncomfortable there for a few minutes there in Trig.

It could be growing pains, or it could be the fact that I've played in five baseball games in the last three days, but my shoulders are killing me. I can't tell which it is.

In any case, it's "throw puberty at Mello" day.

I'm _so_ glad none of this happened yesterday, when I was with L. I would have died of embarrassment, even if he'd play it cool and remind me that even he had to go through it when he was my age. It wouldn't have made it any better, but it would have been the thought that counted. Thankfully, that didn't happen.

…Call me sick or twisted, but I can't wait for Near to go through all of this embarrassment.

I'm really hating this whole "growing up" thing. I feel like a PMSing girl. One minute I'm perfectly content, and the next I want to rip someone's trachea from their neck because they got a tenth of a point higher on a paper. Maybe that's because of my inferiority complex, but that could also be fueled by these freakin' hormones. It's like I'm bipolar all of a sudden… which I kind of was beforehand. But that's beside the point.

But my _hair._ God, _my hair._

For those who don't know what I look like, I'm not exactly the biggest guy. I'm pretty small-framed at five-foot three-inches tall. Yeah, I'm short. My hair is about to my shoulders and it's blond, with bangs cut straight across my forehead.

That being said, you can imagine how many jokes I receive about being a female.

_Do any of you even _know_ what I've been going through today?_ Voices cracking and broadening shoulders and above all _erections_ are not things girls have happen to them.

But my main issue with my hair isn't the fact that it makes me look like a girl, it's how annoying it is to care for. I love it, I really do. It's one of the only things that remind me of my sister, since we both shared that straw-colored hair we got from our mother. I like being able to see the color of it, but washing it and drying it every night is not only time-consuming when it comes to my study time, but the shampoo and conditioner is expensive. I know, that's not really something we have to be worried about at Wammy's, but I don't want to be throwing money away because of my weird obsession with my hair. I was never a wasteful person.

It's also not like I'm just washing it every night because I can. I have to. It gets all greasy and sweaty during the day, another thing thanks to puberty.

God, why couldn't everyone just be born already matured? Why do you make us suffer like this?

My final subject (that will probably be protracted the longest) is the female species. Yes, I classify them as a different species, despite the true scientific definition.

Why do they have to be so pretty? They all distract me from my work during class, regardless if they're trying to or not. I've only ever had one girl purposely try to catch my attention during class, and that's because I was blocking the board we were copying notes from in Chemistry.

Girls don't like me. All of what I'd like to call my friends has at least one girl who likes them. Blare's got Storm, a bookworm with a writing fetish—they're both quiet and they like to study together. For some reason or another, three or four girls ask me about Matt on a regular basis. I don't know how such an antisocial person gets so many girls after him. Maybe I should ask him what his trick is sometime. But hell, even _Near _has a girl who likes to play with him and his weird little toys, Linda. As far as I know, nobody's taken an interest to me. Nobody who's said anything, at least.

I know I don't want to deal with other people, and I know a girl would just be a nuisance. As a teenage boy, however, I want that somebody to hold close and confide in instead of this stupid journal or my Psych teacher (no offense, Mr. Edman!).

I don't want sex. My body might, but I'm not ready for something like that. I want someone to know that I'm not the big and strong person everyone makes me out to be, without being criticized. Geniuses or not, kids still like to pick on people like me, even if I teach them not to (in not-so conventional ways). The fact that we're all so smart here just inflates everyone's egos, especially newcomers. They all think they're the best, even though "best" is an always relative term.

Matt doesn't pick on me.

I just realized that. He may be a pain in my buttocks, but he doesn't actually pick on me. He teases me in a way that makes me know it's all lighthearted and all in good spirits. Even then, he keeps that teasing to a minimum. He's the picture of what I would expect a bunch of genius kids to act like: to not pick on people because they know how it feels.

But as I'm sure my history teacher Mr. Larsyn would agree, human nature will never change. People will always be greedy and envious and wrathful and proud and slothful and indulgent and lustful. No girl will ever believe that I'd only ever like them for who they are, due to the sharp cynicism and condescension that has invaded the average mind nowadays. They won't believe that all I want, all I need, some days, is a hug.

Then again, maybe I shouldn't be talking. The one time someone tried to become even remotely close to me, I was immediately suspicious of their possible ulterior motives. I scared them away from me with my own personality.

I don't exactly want to go into detail, but in a nutshell, a girl who used to go to Wammy's (and still does, actually) had a crush on me last year. I didn't think about girls in that way, but she most definitely liked me. Due to being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I yelled at her and scared her away. She hasn't spoken to me much since then. I'm not mentioning names.

I'm not meant to be loved. Not really, I think. It's just not in the stars for me.

Maybe as the nights go on, new constellations will reveal themselves. Doubtful, but I can't be completely depressing. I feel awkward because I'm growing up and girls don't like me. For the first time in a while, I feel somewhat… normal. I feel like a kid who doesn't have to worry about being first in line to inherit the name of a world-renowned detective.

I don't like feeling normal. It makes me feel like I'm insignificant, like everything I've ever been known for and everything I've worked for just disappeared. The fruits of my labor— rotten, by a simple worm like growing up.

Luckily, the worm's not in my apple. It hasn't been for nothing. At least, not yet.

Mello

**A/N: **

D'awwww. Mello, on girls. And puberty. This was definitely fun to write. XD

So, what do y'all think about a parallel _Matt's_ Psych Journal? Thoughts?

Until next time!


	10. Chapter 10

11/8/2004 Wednesday

This whole "holding back my emotions" thing is actually kind of working. I didn't start any fights today. That's a lot of headway for one day, I think. I managed to keep myself from cussing out Luca when he accidentally kicked a football into the back of my head during recess. I didn't piss off Mr. Larsyn. I didn't flip off Near behind Roger's back.

I don't know if I like this feeling of being a nice, friendly, and accepting person. It's supposedly what people stride for, according to my Psych book, but I don't think everyone has the same picture of perfect mental health. I'm supposed to self-actualize myself. That's the top of the pyramid. I don't know how to do that. I think that's what this journal is supposed to be helping me to do, but I just don't know. Do I _want_ to actualize myself? If I do that, will I still have something to stride for?

Wait. Mental health is fluid. It changes. After I reach self-actualization, I'm supposed to be working to maintain that state of mind. It's not a goal to achieve. It's a state of mind to preserve.

What will it take to actualize myself? What is my true calling? That's what I'm supposed to be figuring out here.

I'm really hating Psychology. I think I should have taken Sociology again instead…

Anyway. Back to the positive.

I'm in a pretty good mood today. It's been one of those Wednesdays when everything runs smoothly, it's a nice day outside, and everyone's just generally happy. I can't explain it much more than it feels like the sun is shining down on Wammy's, sappy as it may sound. Today is a good day.

I like days like today. It's days like today when I can forget about everything else and just enjoy the nice weather and nice moods of others. I love the pull of nature's finer aspects. This afternoon, I spent a good hour just sitting outside in the grass, reading.

What is it about nature that I like so much? I really can't think of one single reason. The smell. The sights. The sounds. Hell, we're going with senses—the feeling and taste of it, too! I could just fall back into the grass and sit there all day, like I almost did earlier.

I think if I could run away into the woods without having to worry about food or rabid animals or something, I would in a heartbeat. I'd run away from my problems, which _only_ in the case that I will never return to any sort of "civilization" other than my own would it work. I generally don't run away from issues. I face them head-on, usually. But if I had to choose between reality and my own natural paradise, I'd pick paradise.

In paradise, I wouldn't have to compete with Near—with anyone, for that matter—to become L's successor. I'd be the best at everything, because there would be no one for me to subconsciously compare myself to. I'd live in my own way, in the woods with the stars as my ceiling and the soft grass as my bed. I'd only talk to people when I want to. I'd be able to eat whatever I wanted, including endless bars of chocolate. I'd work as L does, solving only cases that interest me personally. Life would be perfect for me.

I'd create the kind of self-utopia that _isn't_ a dystopia as well. Perfection. Nothing more, nothing less.

Days like today make me remember why I love nature so much.

Matt hates anything to do with nature. The outdoors is the bane of his existence, and supposedly, he melts under sunlight. He presumably spent the last nineteen hours, other than slinking from class to class, holed up in his room with the curtains drawn playing video games.

Shit, spoke too soon. Speak of the devil and he shows up.

Alright! I may have actually persuaded the redheaded menace to come outside and join in flashlight tag outside once the sun sets completely. Which is about in ten minutes. He's hovering over my shoulder, but I keep kicking him away. It's pretty funny, actually.

Ugh.

Why must this kid be so annoying?

I think I'm going to leave now, because I cannot concentrate on anything involving my thoughts other than _stop it Matt, go away Matt, I'll be outside in a minute, go on without me, fucking leave me alone for a minute while I finish this!_

… I totally didn't just yell each of those thoughts at him. Nope. Crazy.

I also didn't almost forget my flashlight.

Mello

**A/N: **

Slightly shorter, but still fun. ^_^ I love Matt bugging Mello. Be on the lookout for Matt's Psych Journal if you're interested—I should be putting it out sometime in the next week or so. I've got a bit more writing time coming up soon! Be excited. ;)

Until next time~!


	11. Chapter 11

12/8/2004 Thursday

I ran out of chocolate today. It's pretty sad, considering I had a whole case stowed in my closet at the beginning of the month.

I don't think I've ever mentioned my addiction to chocolate here. Well, not "addiction," per se. It's like my brain food. I'm always eating it, even during class. I don't know why I ever started, really. I guess I just liked it.

Let's title this entry from here on down: Mello's List of Benefits of Eating Chocolate.

When I was with L, all he ever ate (that day, at least) was sweets. The healthiest thing he ate that entire afternoon was an entire bowl of strawberries. Other than that, it was chocolate, ice cream, cake, candy, and anything else with high concentration of sugar.

Before then, chocolate was just something I ate constantly to keep my mouth busy. I hated chewing gum, so I figured chocolate was the best-tasting substitute. And might I add, I've lived off chocolate almost half of my life now, and not a cavity in these pearly whites you will find. I'm quite proud of my dental hygiene, yes.

But now, knowing that I'm not the only one to adore sweets such as Hershey's, and knowing that it's my idol that stands beside me with this affinity… There's no way in hell that I'll ever put down another chocolate bar. According to L, the sugars are used up by exercising my brain, which is why I'm still thin as a broom while downing nine or ten bars a day. I'm not quite sure if I would buy that, but L said it—I'm almost obligated to believe him.

I really don't know what it is about chocolate that makes me eat it so much. It's just so smooth and easy to eat. Not like any sort of citrusy or salty things that eventually make the top of your mouth hurt. Chocolate is chocolate. If I want citrus, I can have that orange infused chocolate I usually get on Easter and Christmas. Same thing with spicy things—jalapeno infused. Now that stuff—yeah, that's good…

I've been told I should move into Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. I have been called "Charlie" because of it. I've been constantly called a PMSing girl by some of the older kids. "Give me chocolate or die!" Pretty accurate, but still. No.

Ugh, now I want chocolate.

But anyway…

Chocolate is mainly something to keep my mouth busy. I used to chew my nails a lot, but after eating my first bar of chocolate, I forced myself to switch habits. As I mentioned earlier, people had tried to get me to stop with chewing gum. It was disgusting. But chocolate? Chewing chocolate was a lot healthier for my fingernails, I'll give you that much.

Oh yeah, health! Everyone's heard that dark chocolate is beneficial to heart health because of the antioxidants within it. I'm a firm believer of that. If I die of some sort of heart-related issue, I'm hoping everyone will immediately assume it was Kira because how could that happen to me?

Chocolate. Mm. Chocolate is also easy to find. Give me one single store—grocery store, convenient store, pretty much anywhere—that does _not_ have some sort of chocolate or chocolate flavored merchandise. Go on, I dare you. It's hard, right? Chocolate is _everywhere_. Those cacao harvesters should get paid a hell of a lot more than they probably are.

Which reminds me. Chocolate is a renewable source. Cacao trees can be grown, albeit slowly. Chocolate is something I don't think will ever die out. From the very beginning of chocolate drinks made by the Aztecs and the Mayans, to the high-tech Lindt chili-infused chocolate bars, it's a timeless treat. It's sacred in some societies, savored in most, and eaten as a daily thing in others, such as my own.

Why do I feel like I'm writing an essay on chocolate? Oh right, I am.

Chocolate is economical. Sure, people can spend the big bucks for the _really good_ kind, like what I get on special occasions, but as I mentioned, chocolate is pretty much anywhere! You can get a classic Hershey's bar for not even a pound! And Roger's assistant usually gets them for me in bulk, so it's even cheaper that way. Not saying I'm _cheap, _but you know.

To recap, my list is as follows:

Mello's List of Benefits of Eating Chocolate

_L likes sweets_

_I like it_

_It's smooth and tasty_

_It doesn't hurt your mouth at all_

_It comes in maybe thousands of flavors_

_Keeps me from biting my nails_

_Dark chocolate is healthy for my heart_

_Chocolate is _everywhere

_Renewable resource_

_It's generally cheap_

But above all:

_YOU CANNOT EAT TOO MUCH CHOCOLATE_

Okay, sure. I've been sick before. But there has _always _been a plausible reason for it other than me eating too much chocolate. I can eat bar after bar like a freakin' chain smoker and not feel even slightly woozy from it. But whenever I get sick, the first thing people say is, "Oh, you probably ate too much chocolate." Nope! Wrong! One time I was sick, Blare had just had the flu for a full week. Explainable. Another, the bus broke down about a half a kilometer from the school and we had to walk back in the snow. Also explainable. The last time, I discovered that I am allergic to kiwis. It's pretty good knowing that now. Wish I knew it then.

All in all, (God did I actually just use that clause?) chocolate is amazing in every possible way. Period.

Mello

**A/N: **Happy Friday, everyone! :D This chapter is probably my favorite, for reasons I hope I don't have to explain. xD I love Mello fangirling over chocolate. Who doesn't?!

Hope you enjoyed~! You all know reviews and constructive criticism always make my day! ;)


	12. Chapter 12

13/8/2004 Friday

I slipped. I guess I _had_ been holding all of that anger back. I was keeping every other remark I knew would start a fight inside me, and apparently, I have a small capacity for bullshit. So I slipped, and I almost pulled my hair out. Literally.

How did this come about? I was being my unusual civil and studious self, and I used the wrong word. _One freaking word. _Not even. It was a slip of the tongue, but when Near arrogantly pointed out that I had said _qualitative _rather than _quantitative,_ I lost it.

All of my hard work being nice and seemingly emotionless blew up in my face. It didn't take more than a moment, but I was screaming and cursing at Near in front of our small but comparatively substantial class. I kicked the desk out of my way and stormed from the room, trying to maintain some sort of handle. It wasn't working all that well.

And so I ended up in the bathroom with my fists in my hair and uncontrollable sobs. I was furious with myself for letting loose like that. I hit my head against the wall a couple of times before I recollected myself. I immediately gathered myself up and dropped myself in the chair in Roger's office before anyone could come after me. When he walked in about fifteen minutes later, he was genuinely surprised to see a flustered me sitting there, legs drawn up to my chest just as L had sat.

I said, "I did it again. I lost it… I-I'm sorry."

He said, "I know, Mello. I know."

How can he be so calm, cool, and collected when I was on the verge of mental breakdown?! Maybe it was because he'd so often seen students in that condition. I just wonder why he didn't do anything about it, considering what A did. It could be that he trusts my intuition and my ability to discern what I should do in a situation, despite my emotions. I mean, that's gotten me this far, hasn't it?

Roger gave me a hug, which made me start _bawling._ It was the single most non-masculine thing I've ever done in my entire life. But I think he read part of one my entries a couple of days ago—Tuesday, I think—specifically the part when I said all I need some days is a hug. Damn that man. He makes it too hard to think of him as the stick-in-the-mud caretaker he should be.

In reality, I know he's not. Still…

There are so many emotions being dragged around in a whirlwind within me that I can barely sort out which ones are which. There's anger—no, rage—frustration, disappointment, stress, disgust, desperation… As far as I'm concerned, all of the negative feelings are here, but I can't seem to find the positive ones. The honor and determination, while still there in a way, can't be felt anymore. I don't know where they went or why they're hiding, but all I know is that right now, everything seems like one immense hell storm for absolutely nothing.

I think I've been tricking myself into thinking I'm worth something in the last few days. My subconscious knew, though, that there's nothing I can really do anymore to make my presence known. I'm here. Somebody acknowledge me. I want to be a big name some day. Even given my outright opportunities practically handed to me on a silver platter, I can't say that I'll utilize what's given to me in a way that will satisfy me completely. I'll never be completely happy with the way things turn out. I never have been.

Why can't I just be happy? What mental road block is impeding on my happiness? Really? It's like there's a giant tree that's been felled over that passage in my brain and now I'm just kind of walking around in circles. It looks like a find a way out, but I can't manage to get through, then I just get more and more lost. I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know where to go.

I think perpetual anger is just a part of my character. It's always been there, even when I was little. I can be strong, and I can have a good time, and I can be quiet and content, but nobody's ever surprised when I blow my lid. People know me strictly on my explosive temper. That, and my intelligence. That seems to be all I really am to other people: fury and brains.

I guess that's all I really want to be. I wouldn't like people actually knowing how I think and what I feel. I like being unbreakable, being an enigma. There's not a soul I know who truly knows what I think aside from the four who have read this journal—and no more. That's why I don't like writing in this. Sure, it feels good to vent, but afterward, the steam just keeps on coming more and more. It's like fanning the fire.

I'm embarrassed, I think. I'm embarrassed I have human emotions. If anything ever got out that I felt any of this inner battle I'm having, I'd never be able to live it down. I'd just keep thinking about how everyone knows what I think. The paranoia would get to me far sooner than the pressure of becoming number one would.

I've been called an "attention whore." Oh yeah, plenty of times. But the thing is, this whole "I don't want people knowing when I'm down" thing is completely genuine. I want someone to know, but I don't want anyone to know. It's this fucking indecisiveness that's causing all of this. _That's it. _I don't know what I want.

I should introvert for a while.

No, that'd just make things worse. I may as well keep on going with my life and just keep myself so busy and distracted, so I won't have a moment to think about my emotions. That should work. It has up until now.

Forget it. I have to stop thinking, "Will it work?" when it comes to these things.

It _will_ work. It has to.

Mello

**A/N: **

Happy Friday everyone! Hope you enjoyed this chapter~

So, since there's only five more chapters of Mello's Psych Journal after this, I'm going to wait until I'm done with this journal to publish Matt's. So you've got another six weeks until the first chapter of his. ;)

Thank you so much for reading~!


	13. Chapter 13

14/9/2004 Saturday

So, I realized, after sifting through previous entries in this journal, that I have yet to explain the Kira case, or my views on the matter. It's mainly because _everyone_ knows of the worldwide mass murderer who has been killing thousands of people in some way or another. Part of it's also that L is on the case, and if L takes on a case, it gets solved. That's just how it is.

How Kira manages to have such an extensive reach is still something that is beyond me. It's as if his mode of killing is supernatural. It's a possibility, however slim it is, that a single person is _not_ conducting these murders, and it's just a case of a terrifying disease that has no symptoms except for spontaneous heart failure breaking through the prisons of the world. It could be a conspiracy, and the world governments have been the ones implementing such a virus. If it is, they have incredible control over it, like a well-trained dog. It could be just coincidental. The possibilities are really endless.

I'm obviously not a Kira supporter. Working to be L's successor, I kind of _have _to be anti-Kira. Although, the staff at Wammy's—namely, Roger—encourage us to form our own opinions separate from those of our friends. Even if L technically isn't my friend, the point is to not be influenced by others' wants when it comes to our opinions and morals. But that's beside the point. I don't believe in the meaningless murder of people, criminals or otherwise, regardless of what everyone else thinks.

But… It's not meaningless…

Since these murders began, crime rates have taken a nose dive worldwide. People who took lives, but escaped the death sentence are now paying for their sins. I can't say I support it completely, but I _can_ say that I appreciate Kira's motives: to eradicate crime from a filthy world. I just don't support the method of murdering those who commit crimes. He shouldn't be posing as God—nobody should try to imitate God. That's almost a worse sin than murder.

When Kira starts murdering those who simply get in his way—then, he'll be unforgivable. He's already relatively unforgivable, but there are people out there who believe that because of the good he's done in this world to end crime, his good deeds outweigh his sins. I'm not one of those people. But with each person he kills, he loses the support of those close to that person, regardless of their actions. Murderers still have families. Soon enough, he'll lose the support of everyone, save for those insane sadists or just mentally ill. The only thing he'll ever rule by is not the support of his so-called "subjects," but the unadulterated fear he's using to hold us all down.

Good thing I'm not afraid. Neither is L.

Despite the benefits of his actions, Kira is still in the wrong. I don't know in how many ways I can explain it.

I don't know where to go from here. I'm kind of exhausted of ideas to write about.

Blare just came in.

We've had plenty of chats. I like when I can talk to people, level-headed. I've talked to Blare a lot over the last few years, since he got here, at least. We talk about everything roommates would be expected to talk to—about ourselves, our interests, things like that. We haven't exactly gone too much into depth. Not as much as I've had to think for this project. I think the most I've ever revealed to him was the night we exchanged stories about our pasts.

I like Blare though. He may be a man of few words, but he's a nice guy. He's fourth in the running to take L's name, behind Matt, me, and Near. He's pretty smart, and _was _second before I got there. Then I took second, and Matt took third maybe a year later.

Even so, he hasn't had any sort of bad attitude toward us. I know that if that were me, I would have driven myself into a deep, dark abyss of my own self-pity and inferiority. That's really no exaggeration. But Blare? No, Blare takes it as one of those people you'd expect to see at some Hippie convention like Woodstock or something: "If it's meant to happen, it'll happen." He's kind of chill like Matt, but also not… I really don't know how to explain it any other way than he accepts everything that happens as fate, continues working as he works, and gets stressed out just as everyone else does. Except maybe a little bit more—he's got really horrible test anxiety during finals week.

It's kind of odd to think about how different we all are, mentally. Some people can be bothered to no end just by the pressures of even a simple test you're totally prepared for, while others, like me, actually _like_ tests. It's just the general outcome that usually ruffles my feathers. But I'm not going into that.

Humans, as a species, act generally similar. But beyond the "general" classification, each and every one of us is different. Behavior between any two people cannot be exactly the same. It can be meticulously copied, like with Beyond, but just in going through the trouble to do that his personality was drastically different from the person he was trying to imitate—L. B was trying to set up the unsolvable case. He was trying to make a case that _L couldn't solve._

People just need to back the fuck up, not get so angry all the time, and actually think about the individuality of any given person.

The moral of this story, I guess, is try as you might, you are always unique in every possible way. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Even me. _Especially _me.

It just makes it harder to find somebody to understand. Understanding is a little more common, but with the huge range of people and views, it's insanely difficult to find someone who matches up with even some of my views. Part of me thinks there's no one out there who does. There's not another person in the whole world who knows anything about my situation. Nobody else knows the pressures of being number two in such a prestigious school. Nobody knows the degree of the facets of my personality. I can't even _tell them._ The feeling of eccentricity is enough to drive anyone into a mental hole. Like there's no one else in this entire universe who could possibly understand absolutely everything I have to say. That's really all there is to it.

And that's what fucking sucks.

Mello

**A/N: **Heyooo, happy Friday! :D Mello's got a bit of A.D.D. for this entry. It's kind of all over the place, heh. But hey, coherency was never asked for in the description of this assignment! Hahaha,!

So, school is going to be starting soon (if it hasn't already). But fear not! I have done the unprecedented for me and actually written the rest of this story before I won't be able to. I just hope I'll be able to hear from you guys, too! :)

I hope you enjoyed, and reviews make my day. ;)


	14. Chapter 14

15/8/2004 Sunday

This is the last day of this wretched journal. I'm actually kind of glad.

I don't think I'll keep writing. Things have been crappier and crappier with every day that I write down what I'm feeling. I'll still try to work on everything I've mentioned and such, but writing it out just makes me think more about what I'm feeling, and inevitably just makes me angrier than I was to begin with. I know Mr. Edman and L and Roger all want me to keep doing this, but nothing good is going to come from it. If anything, just more emotional me tearing up the World History room and screaming at kids younger than me.

I don't like psychology. It makes me think too much about myself. It draws out too many bad memories, upsets carefully hidden emotions, and for me, just makes things worse. It sucks, and it's gonna be a long semester.

I hate feeling crappy like I am now. I'm tired as all get-out and I really could deal with not going to class tomorrow. My feet hurt from the football game we held earlier. I can't think more than three sentences without yawning. My butt hurts from hitting the deck during the game, and from sitting so long at dinner. I can't really sense any of my emotions. I feel like an empty, worn-out shell.

But this is the last day of this. The fifteenth of August. Near's birthday's in a little over a week. He'll be thirteen. How can he be that much younger than me, but still on my level intellectually? I wasn't as smart as he is at that age. I don't think it's fair.

Wait.

That's not right. If some people didn't have that natural, God-given intellectual advantage, everyone would be the same. I wouldn't be number two. I wouldn't be at Wammy's. Wammy's wouldn't exist! I guess what I mean to say is I wish I had an equal—or greater—advantage as Near.

Near doesn't have many friends. He spends his time indoors, in his room, stacking things and playing with toys and solving jigsaw puzzles and riddles. He rarely has any meal in the cafeteria—only on holidays when everyone is required to eat together, regardless of whether we celebrate it or not.

That being said, why do so many people wish him a happy birthday?

People are afraid of me. When I turned thirteen, I had Matt, Blare, Near, and maybe a teacher or two wish me a happy birthday. I got a case of chocolate from Roger, and Matt "allowed" me to play through his Pokémon Blue Version.

Near, though, just walking into the cafeteria on his birthday last year, had an entire table serenading him—literally. Linda gave him some brand new toy he liked.

Whatever. Just thinking about the sheep sets my blood boiling. May as well end this shit storm on a high note, so I'm not going to go into that any more.

On the positive side of today, Matt and I actually were in the same area voluntarily without me wanting to punch him. Okay, so we snuck out of Sunday library time to hang out in the bathroom and share junk food. Yeah, that's why it took so long for Matt to refill his water bottle (which was admittedly Sprite) and why I spent so much time going to the bathroom.

I think I can call Matt my best friend now. I wasn't quite sure of that before, but now I am. He's so chilled out all the time, so laid back, he's going to fall over. But it's contagious. He makes me relax too, which I have been in dire need of for a while. I put too much stress on myself. That stress is lifted when we sit on the windowsill in the bathroom with a bag of Doritos between us and just joke about everything we can think of.

I think he knows though. He knows that I push myself too hard. Honestly, I think it's pretty obvious. I think a lot of people know, but really only Matt does anything. Everyone else is too afraid of me.

Come to think of it, I've never laid a hand on Matt. It's hard for me to keep my hands to myself. I've hit Near plenty of times, Blare only once, before I knew about his family, and enough of the other kids for me to get grounded more than my fair share of times. But never Matt. I don't know why.

I loved that today, though. I need to do that more often with him—just cut class and chill out. I know I shouldn't be cutting class, but who the hell cares? It's not like Near shows up to half of his classes. Only when he's not hiding in his room does he come. I can still beat him, especially if I'm taking that time to relax and recollect myself. And even then, it's just a study hall, pretty much. I can do my work and my research whenever. Not just in those two hours.

I just can't get over the fact that Matt's _my friend._ He said that, too. I'm his friend. He's my friend.

I think he's my first actual true blue friend.

It's getting late. I've already showered, my hair is dry and up in a pony tail, and I'm all ready for bed. I'm actually writing this _in_ bed. My feet still hurt and I'm ready to pass out as soon as I drop this pen.

I don't know how to end this. What should I say? Goodbye? Maybe see you again, if I ever need to vent and no one's willing to listen? That probably won't happen, because I'm learning that I can rant even if no one gives a shit! They'll hear it. They may not listen, but someone will hear. And then, when I snap and seriously injure myself or another, I can say I warned them. I don't want to think that'll happen for sure, but I have to accept that it's a very real possibility.

I mean, yeah, this journal's helped me a lot. But it's also put me in countless bad moods. I recognize my issues, but I don't know if I can—or am willing to—change them. Some things I'm still trying my best to fix. Others I've given up on. Some are lost causes that stay stationary despite my efforts.

The one thing I can say for sure without a doubt is that I'm going to enjoy not having to write in this every night. As I know I've made clear, in the words of the oh-so-wise Matt, I thought too much and put myself in a bad mood. I think if I ever write in this again, it'll be when I've thought too much on my own terms and need to write it down. Otherwise, I can't say I'll touch this very much until then.

So I really don't know what to say from here. I guess I'll just end it.

See you.

Mello

**A/N:** Happy Friday everyone!

So, although the journal is technically over, there will be three more chapters, so be on the lookout for those. ;)

Thank you all so much for reading (and hopefully reviewing! c;)! I'm really glad to know people care enough to read my work. C:

Until next week~!


	15. Chapter 15

29/11/2009

Holy crap, I still have this thing? Why haven't I thrown it away or burned it yet? This was a two-week thing. Nothing more. I succeeded as much as would be possible without it. I don't know if it helped or if it just screwed me over, but this journal hasn't seen the light of day since I dropped it in the bottom of a backpack I don't think I've emptied since I left Wammy's House.

The last date in here was August 13, 2004. Funny I should stop writing then. Just a few days short of four months later, news came to the orphanage that L, the man I looked up to for my entire life, was dead—killed by Kira. I was heartbroken, though I wouldn't let myself show it. Sorrow was one of the emotions I was able to disguise.

When L died of that fateful heart attack, Watari, otherwise known as the founder of Wammy's House also died. Before his heart stopped beating, however, he erased any and all data L had collected on the Kira case, leaving Near and me with nothing. We had to rebuild the case on our own. I say "we" because when L died, he hadn't yet chosen whether Near or I would be his successor. Roger gave us the opportunity to work together, but that was another instance when my emotions got the better of me. By then, I was beyond caring about my self control, with no one left to work at it for. L was dead.

Naturally, instead of swallowing my pride and working with Near, I knew I wouldn't be able to cooperate with him without strangling him within the first week. I let _him_ become the successor to L. I gave up what I worked so hard to earn for myself. But if I hadn't, then I wouldn't have earned it. I knew I wasn't top-notch yet. I knew while Near and I were of the same mental level, he had a much higher level of self control than I would ever even dream of accomplishing. I gave the spot to him, but I wouldn't give up.

So I left.

With Wammy's House behind me, I lived on the streets. I, barely fifteen years old at the time, got mixed up in things I don't exactly care to admit, mainly because that could be considered a confession. Let's just say I got my hands dirty.

Ah, what the hell. It's a journal, not a newsletter.

I'm a murderer. I've killed too many people with my bare hands. I can't even look at them anymore, without knowing how many lives have ended within them, whether by strangling, stab wounds, gunshot wounds, or just plain old blunt force trauma. I was little better than a hit man, paid for my cold and unfeeling demeanor. Finally, I had achieved my dream of being emotionless, but not in the way I wanted me to be.

I was emotionless on the outside, but within me, the turmoil was almost unbearable. It was that inner rage bursting out in controlled flares that allowed me to cold-heartedly murder all those people, those thugs, those scummy businessmen, those innocent witnesses.

But it paid off. Working underground for so many people, I was bound to hear things. I collected an incredible amount of data on the Kira case just in that first year living in Winchester, England. Eventually, I got a contact in the Mafia in New York City, and I headed across the Atlantic to continue my research. There, at seventeen by then, I joined the Mafia.

The rules were strict, and I stuck to them like glue. I avoided speaking to any and all authorities. I was clean shaven. I committed no adultery to the wives of other members, nor did I fight with them or talk about them. I paid the boss every month without question. I was the model associate, executing each and every task handed to me flawlessly.

I hopped from city to city, spreading my reputation within the allied Mafias, but no further. I eventually ended up in Los Angeles, where I decided to stay. The boss there, Rod Ross, had a particular liking for me, as I was able to take out a rival gang not only single handedly, but silently. Within the year, I was as good as the puppet master of Ross, despite my German—not Italian—descent. I called the shots, and Ross trusted me. That's how it worked.

Life within the Mafia was good. It paid well, and the perks were nothing to sneeze at. I could have a cute girl on my lap at the snap of my fingers if I ever wanted it. Love may have been nonexistent for me, but at least I could get a good lay. The girls liked me especially, mostly because I didn't treat them all like shit like Ross and the other cronies did. I may be a nasty person whose manners all but disappeared, but chivalry for people like them remained high on my mind—to a point.

And what did it get me? A nice, genuine lap dance and a fuck whenever I wanted.

Los Angeles, though, was the place where shit started to go down.

After so many years recollecting my own collection of information pertaining to the Kira case, I had finally become an active part in it. Once again, I did things any form of federal government would lock me up for. I kidnapped the director of the NPA, Kanichi Takimura. When he committed suicide within the Mafia's hideout, I resorted to kidnapping the leader of the Task Force assigned to the Kira case's daughter, Sayu Yagami. I took away a man's daughter for a notebook with the power to kill.

I learned of the notebook, the "death note," through a member of Near's "SPK," or "Special Provisions for Kira." It's a supernatural weapon used for the mass destruction of criminals by the notorious wannabe God-like murderer, Kira. There are dozens of rules pertaining to details about the extents to which it can be used, but the main idea of it is that if a person's name is written in the notebook while the writer is thinking of the person's face, that person will die of a heart attack forty seconds later.

This being true, I didn't let go of my alias I acquired from Wammy's House, even after I left.

Once I got my hands on the notebook, I employed the assistance and support of the president of the United States. Well, "employed" may be a euphemism…

Then, a month later, the NPA infiltrated my base. I was prepared, though. I knew it was coming. I had laced the entire place with explosives, indulging my inner pyrotechnic. When I was merely a pull of a trigger away from my death, I bid them farewell and lit the fuse, so to speak. I lost a majority of the Mafia members by the death note in the process, the death note itself, killed someone's father, and I burned up half of my face and my shoulder in the process. It was the one instance where I couldn't find the good in the situation, other than the bare fact that I was alive.

I dragged myself out of the rubble I'd caused and ran away. Nobody knew where I went. To everyone who knew me previous to that explosion, I had as good as disappeared off the face of the earth. In all reality, I hid out in an apartment I managed to arrange for myself in Philadelphia, recuperating on my own. That's actually where I am now, until I physically rejoin the investigation.

When I was in relatively good health, after my face finally healed—for the most part—I decided to pay Near a visit. Alright, so I took a hostage in the process. Halle Lidner led me to my self-proclaimed nemesis at gunpoint. After a brief conversation that I'd been waiting to have for a while, I finally told Near off and reminded him I would never go along with any of his plans, that I wasn't just a tool for him to use. I wasn't a rung of his ladder he could use to pull himself higher, then step all over me. I took back the only existing photo of me. I was toying with using it as a bookmark for this, but I recall putting down my real name toward the beginning. Even if I _did_ black it out, I'm not taking the chances that my name and face would be in the same place. So I burned it.

I also alerted him of the two fake rules that were written in the death note by a sneaky shinigami. Of course, I was told this by _another_ shinigami, one who found me intimidating and "scary." I find it humorous and partially satisfying that a _god of death_ is afraid of me. That's saying something.

One thing happened during my visit with Near that I'm not sure of. I pulled my gun on him. He told me to shoot him. _I almost did._ I know I'm a murderer, and I know I haven't batted and eyelash with taking a life before. Just the thought of watching my bullet pierce my one-time, something similar to a _friend…?_

I know I hate Near. I know he's been the bane of my existence for my entire life—or, at least since he joined the orphanage when I was ten. I know that despite my hatred and loathing directed toward him, he's one of the only people who actually tried to make friends with me, other than Matt. I had to face the truth. I realized, with my finger on the trigger, that if I killed Near, I wouldn't be able to finish the case. Matt and I wouldn't be able to complete what L had started and passed on to us.

Just before I left, Matt, the sneaky genius he is, figured out that I was leaving. He knocked on my door quietly and let himself in when I didn't answer. He let me know that if I ever needed anything that he could help out with, technologically or otherwise, to call him up.

After the explosion, I took him up on that offer. The conversation went something like this:

"Hello?" Matt's voice had grown deeper over the last five years, and I almost didn't recognize him. I'm sure the same was true for me. He sounded distracted, as if he was playing a video game. He probably was, at that point.

"Matt."

He paused his game when he heard his name. He hesitated, unsure. "And who the fuck are you?"

It was typical Matt. No manners whatsoever. No "May I ask who's calling?" Just a gruff, impolite demand of information. I liked that. "It's Mello, asshole."

"_Oh." _I had his full attention. "Hey."

"Hey." There was a pause. "Remember when you said to call you if I needed anything?"

He was skeptical. "Yeah."

"I'm taking you up on that offer."

"Alright," I heard a couch depress as he sat down—or sat up. "What do you need?"

"Two things. First, I need you to not judge me in any way—by my appearance, by my choices—nothing."

"Done."

"Second, I need you to help me out, regardless of where you are right now. I need your help on the Kira case with some surveillance." I held my breath. "Speaking of which, where are you?"

He thought for a moment. "I'm still in Winchester. I moved out of Wammy's but I'm too lazy to move somewhere else," He thought some more. "Yeah, I guess I could do that."

And now I'm here, where I am now, going through the only backpack I brought from Wammy's House, and the only thing I managed to find unscathed among the ashes and rubble from that incident. My face still aches and stings and I know I'm going to have a nasty scar to show for it. It's been worth it, though. I found this notebook.

I see how much I've changed, how much I've been molded by my surroundings in the last five years. I see clearly now my transition from innocent number two of Wammy's House to the big-time Mafia boss I am today. I see everything I sacrificed: my morals, my unrequited crushes, my safety, my immature views on everything. Some of the sacrifices were worthwhile. Some of them, I might change if I was ever given the opportunity.

But everything has gotten me where I am now: about to take down the most infamous mass murderer since Hitler. Every sacrifice will be worth it when Kira is in jail for life—or better yet, dead.

I'm no longer afraid of change, of losing everything I'm familiar with. Now, I'm familiar with change. I've moved across the globe three times in the last month. I'm actually going to be _working _with Near, rather than spitting curses at him and using him as a surrogate punching bag.

If someone told me five years ago this is where I would be right now—in the Mafia, that is, facing the last case my idol worked on before his untimely death, working with _Near—_ I wouldn't be able to believe them.

Everything has changed so much. I can't say I like how things turned out, but who fucking cares what I think anymore? The only thing I have to do now is take down Kira. That is my single goal right now. After that…?

I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

Mello

**A/N: **Happy Friday! School's really kicking my ass right now. Ugh.

BUT, I still remembered to shoot this up before I leave, so I hope you enjoy! Mello's at least kind of back from his long hiatus from writing in his journal. At least, for a little bit. ;)

Thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

26/1/2010 Saturday

I'm scared.

No, I'm more than scared. I'm terrified.

That's the first time in a long time I've admitted that to myself.

In only a few hours, I'll be in the middle of a potentially and probably fatal situation, involving me, a Death Note, yet another kidnapping, and some wrathful celebrity who'll end up dead alongside my body.

What am I planning to do? Exactly that. I'm planning to throw myself into the line of fire and take one for the team. I'm going to indirectly kill that crazy bitch of Kira spokesperson, and I'm going to do my part in taking down Kira. I'm going to do it.

I'm just petrified.

I can feel my heart beating and my pulse racing even just thinking about it. I'll be dead by tomorrow. You don't know how weird it feels telling myself that. Who really knows when they're going to die unless they plan it? Honestly, this plan is as good as suicide. But it's justified, because I'll be bringing Miss Kiyomi Takada to the afterlife with me.

I want to be the only voluntary casualty in this case. Many, many victims have been claimed by this so-called "God." I am the only one who will be standing up before him daring him to kill me, while also giving him the perfect opportunity to do so. Look at my face, and know my name.

I may seem fearless as I even think about doing something like this, but I'm the most frightening point of my life yet. Even more so than when the fire engulfed by leather-clad body, leaving a physical scar to match my mental one. Even more so than when I stepped out of Wammy's and was completely left to my own devices. Even more so than when I sat by my father's hospital bed at six years old, wailing for him to wake up as I was swept from the room by the nurses. No, this is worse than all of those experiences put together.

This is pure terror.

Mello

**A/N: **Happy Friday everyone!

This chapter isn't very long, but I don't think it really needs to be. While Mello's portion of writing in the journal is over, there will be an epilogue, so keep on the watch for that next week. And Matt's Psych Journal will be coming out next Friday as well if you're interested. C:

Thank you all so much for reading (and hopefully reviewing!)


	17. Chapter 17

The lock of a door clicked open, allowing access to the previously secure apartment. A flashlight beam illuminated bland, dark walls and surfaces coated in dust-layered papers, books, and folders. The furniture was worn, as if it was used far too often and far too roughly.

"Man, did he ever clean this place?"

The light switch was flicked on, and a yellowy bulb shone down on the kitchenette of the apartment. Dark brown and equally worn cabinets stood, falling under the mess of papers that extended even to the ugly green counters.

"I guess not."

Creaky gray-carpeted floors led down the hall to a small bedroom with a desk. Papers and books stacked higher on the desk than the contents of the apartment added together. A laptop was balanced precariously on one of the shorter piles, but the battery had long since died.

One of the two people within the apartment opened a drawer, glanced at the cluttered contents, and slid it shut again. He did this once more with the nightstand, but the ratty, marbled red and black cover of a composition notebook—different from the rest—caught his eye.

"Halle, look at this." He sat down on the neatly made bed—one of the only clean things in the whole apartment, notebook in hand. He flipped through the pages, skimming the collection of words scrawled in varying colored pens. Sometimes black, sometimes blue or red—one entry was even written in purple. "It's a journal. His journal."

Miss Lidner sat down beside her younger comrade and read over his shoulder. They glanced up at each other as they began the second page, smiling faintly. "Matt."

Gevanni grasped the radio in his hand and spoke into it, "N—L, I think you want to see this."

Moments later, a white-haired kid shuffled in, followed by the taller and broader Rester. Near sat on the floor, finger in his mouth, and read Mello's Psychology journal from beginning to end, only pausing to flip the page. Gevanni and Halle continued their mission of retrieving Mello's belongings in his final place of residence before his untimely demise.

"There's nothing in here of worth," Gevanni closed a kitchen cabinet and turned to Halle, sitting on the floor excavating the entertainment center in the living room. Near padded past them, several books in hand. Everyone couldn't help but notice the journal was the one he held closest to him. Gevanni watched as he crossed the room, the boy's eyes turned down to the floor, not observing in the least his old friend's home. Before he reached the doorway, Gevanni cleared his throat and spoke, "What was in the journal?"

Near stopped. He looked at the ground, a small frown on his pale lips. One finger curled a piece of his white hair nervously, almost regretfully. He spoke lowly, almost under his breath, so Gevanni and Halle had to strain to hear, "Everything I failed to notice."

* * *

**A/N: **It's overrrr! D:

I really enjoyed writing this and taking on Mello's personality for a thousand words or so at a time. He's a character near and dear to me not only because he's, well, _Mello,_ but because he reminds me quite a bit of myself. I hope this has been able to be related to, and who knows, maybe even helped someone somewhere. I don't know.

All I know is that I'm really excited to write the next installment of my "Psych Journals" in the publication of the first chapter of Matt's edition! Pardon the shameless self-advertising, but if you want to hear from Matt too, the first chapter was posted only moments ago. :)

I'd really like to send out a huge **_THANK YOU_ **to everyone who has reviewed or favorited this story. :) Your feedback really keeps me writing and reminds me that there are people out there who actually _enjoy_ reading my work! Thank you all so very much! :D

With this, I bid you adieu (but hopefully I'll hear from you soon at Matt's Psych Journal! ;D)!

I really hope you enjoyed!


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